Dr. Mabuse, master of mystery a novel
talk,” reflected Wenk. “Before it was a private car; now it is plying
for hire like a taxicab. What is it that smells so strongly?” His
nostrils and eyelids seemed to be on fire.
In order to decide what the odour was, Wenk drew one or two deep
breaths. Then he tried to open the window, for he found the smell
unbearable. What _did_ it smell of? He raised his arm, but he saw
that it would not rise to its full extent; it did not obey his will.
At the same moment it seemed as if a heavy block were pressing on his
eyes. Then dread seized him in a fiery grasp. No longer capable of
resistance, he began to bellow furiously, flung himself down and kicked
with his foot at the handle of the door, but without being able to find
it.
For some few seconds he lay on the floor of the car, with occasional
gleams of consciousness. Then these were finally extinguished, and
complete insensibility overtook him, while the car continued its mad
race through the streets.
The chauffeur drove with the unconscious form of the drugged State
Attorney throughout the darkness to Schleissheim. There he propped him
up on a bench, and then drove back to Munich. In the Xenienstrasse he
halted before a residence standing alone. Upon a brass plate might be
read:
DR. MABUSE,
_Neurologist._
A man of massive build, covered by a fur coat, came rapidly out of the
house and through the little front garden to the car. “He is lying in
the Schleissheim Park,” said the chauffeur. “Here is the notebook you
wanted.”
“Did you remove the gas-flask from the car?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Drive on!”
But at this moment a woman, closely muffled up, came out of the
darkness and stepped towards the car. She held on to the door,
murmuring beseechingly, “Dearest!”
Mabuse turned in annoyance. “What do you want? Are you begging?”
The woman answered him gently and sadly. “Yes, begging--for love!”
“You know my answer.”
“But remember the past. Why should this be?” implored the voice.
Mabuse, in wrath, exclaimed, “The past is past. Your part is to obey.
My orders are clear, and there is nothing between Yes and No. You have
heard from George what my wishes are. Drive on, George!”
He was already in the car. The woman fell back to the garden railings,
covered herself up again, and called after the retreating car, “But if
I cannot stop loving you?”
Then a second car pulled up close beside her. A man sprang out and
advanced towards her, saying threateningly, “What do you want here? Oh,
oh! it’s you, Cara! Well, have you spoken to the Doctor?”
She nodded despairingly.
“There’s nothing to be done. His will is like a sledge-hammer,
therefore don’t oppose it. So long! I must go after him.”
And Cara Carozza gathered her disguising garments about her and went
away in grief, downcast and heavy-hearted, to sacrifice herself for him.
* * * * *
“Where are we?” inquired Mabuse through the speaking-tube.
“Past Landsberg!” answered George.
The plans in Mabuse’s head succeeded one another as rapidly as the
trees in a forest in which he wandered continually further. Ever more
steps to climb, more gulfs to cross! Were they really plans after all?
Were they not dreams? he asked himself, suddenly checking the thoughts
that were racing through his mind.
“Five million Swiss francs are now worth about twenty-five million
lire, i.e. five million Italian five-lire pieces. Each of these weighs
twenty grams. Five million, will that be enough? It’s a good idea, for
the gain on every five-lire piece which I buy at to-day’s rate with
Swiss francs is four francs; therefore the total gain will be four
million Swiss francs. Against that the costs are thirty per cent. Good!
Each one, I said, weighs twenty grams. Now, how many kilograms are
there in five million times twenty grams? A hundred million grams? Why
cannot I think out these simple calculations clearly? Am I afraid of
anything?”
Yes, there again he found himself in another forest. “Am I afraid,
really afraid? If I am, I shall come to grief. After all, who is Hull?
Who is Wenk? What absurdity! _I_ ... afraid?”
He collected his ideas, and sent these thoughts packing.
“A hundred million grams make a hundred thousand kilograms. According
to the district he is in, a smuggler can carry from ten to fifteen
kilos every time. How many men am I employing in this work alone?
The whole amount must be brought from Italy to the Southern Tyrol
and thence to Switzerland within a month. The Austrian frontiers are
easier, even if I have to employ twice the number. Spoerri reckoned the
risk to be only three per cent., according to the police reports, as
against ten per cent. by Lake Constance or the Ticino frontier, where
the Customs officials, even in peace-time, used to regard everybody
with suspicion.”
Mabuse’s imagination threatened to run away with him again. Should he
not try to sleep?
“Where are we?” he called through the speaking-tube.
“At Buchloe!” was the reply.
The distance from Buchloe to Röthenbach was eighteen kilometres.
“That will take two hours,” he reflected; “then we shall do it
comfortably. At 2 p.m. we must be at Schachen, and before that we meet
Spoerri at Opfenbach and Pesch on the Lindau Hill. After that we shall
be practically in Schachen, and there will be no chance of sleep.”
But he could not regain control of himself. Wenk’s attempt at pursuit
oppressed him. In the Palace Hotel he had only had ten minutes’ start
of him.
He did not want to acknowledge it, even to himself. He began to
reckon that to smuggle five million five-lire pieces from Italy and
the Southern Tyrol through Vorarlberg to Switzerland would require two
hundred and fifty people on each frontier. That was five hundred men
for the smuggling alone. If he reckoned the buyers and the Bolzano
collectors as well, it was really seven hundred. With their families
he might consider that he was keeping, roughly, about four thousand
people. That was a small township. A little town lay in his grasp,
pledged to evil purposes, working in dark nights, stealing along
mysterious byways, avoiding the revolvers of Customs officials, working
stealthily, steadily, at his will. They had no thought either, but of
him, the owner of the money, the employer and dictator, the possessor
of all power and force. They ventured their lives for him, but he had
never seen one of them. How would it be if he were to see and converse
with them, appearing abruptly before them when they were in the midst
of their enterprise? They would imagine themselves to be caught, until
they should have realized that it was he, their master and employer,
who stood amongst them.
Four thousand people; it was a whole district. But in Citopomar it
would be something very different when he traversed the virgin forests
and had the Botocudos and all the other tribes directly under his
thumb, and had left this insignificant beggarly little continent behind
him! There his word alone would be law. There, in Citopomar, the dream
of his boyhood would be fulfilled--a dream which had already begun to
be realized on that large and desolate island which lay cradled in
the ocean yonder. There he had owned men; there wild Nature was his
alone; as a conqueror he had sailed the waters; his blood and sinews
governed men; his will was imposed on Nature; the palms of his planting
yielded him a luxuriant growth of wealth--sheer gold. He could despise
it because he did not need it, for there he was free, free as a king, a
deity!...
But the war had driven him out of his Paradise and sent him back to
the despised continent of Europe. He could not endure life in these
European countries. He felt as if he were confined in a pasture, eating
grass like dumb, senseless cattle ate their predestined, accustomed
grass. No, he could not live thus! Therefore by undermining State
organization he was preparing a State for himself, with laws which he
alone made, with powers vested in himself over the souls and bodies of
men. By means of his accomplices he was collecting the money wherewith
to establish his empire in the primeval forests of Brazil, the Empire
of Citopomar.
He was self-sufficing. What were men to him? He scattered them at will.
Yonder, however, in the future, in Citopomar, there would be none who
_could_ oppose him.
By degrees, as these thoughts ran away with him, Mabuse fell asleep,
his limbs reclining on the cushions and his phantasies soaring above
all material things. For two long hours he slept, sunk in the darkness
of his dreams.
Then it seemed as if a little hammer were striking his skull, always on
the same spot. It was annoying, and it was unheard of. He had only two
hours between Buchloe and Röthenbach in which to sleep. Who had dared
to strike his head with this hammer?
All at once he was wide awake. The hammer was the whistle of the
speaking-tube.
“Well?” called out Mabuse.
“There is a car behind us.”
“What are its marks?”
“There is a grey patch on the right lamp.”
“What is the time?”
“Half-past one.”
“And where are we?”
“Two kilometres from Röthenbach.”
“Pull up! It is Spoerri.”
The car stopped, and immediately its lights went out, and so did those
of the car which followed. Then it drove close up and stopped. There
was a cough heard.
“Come here!” said Mabuse.
Someone came out of the darkness. Mabuse had drawn the revolver from
his coat-pocket. The car-driver turned on a small electric lamp, and
its gleam disclosed a man wrapped in a large cloak.
“Spoerri?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The pistol was returned to its place.
“Spoerri, wait here a quarter of an hour, or else drive to Schachen by
another route. You must arrive shortly after me, between half-past one
and two o’clock. I have decided on some great changes that I want to
tell you of before we go to Switzerland. Anything else?”
“Everything is in order. I have another hundred kilos of cerium in the
car.”
“Good. Between half-past one and two o’clock!”
They drove on. As their road approached the Austrian frontier, which
was patrolled by officials, their lights were extinguished for a while,
but in Schlachters they shone out again, and the village was soon left
behind them.
Half-way to Lindau, where forest and hill meet, they stopped again.
“Anybody there?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Not Pesch?”
“I don’t see anybody.”
Mabuse quitted the car impatiently.
“I will punish him for this. I _will_ have my people punctual!”
He waited on, and the minutes crept by. Mabuse slapped his thigh
angrily. To keep him waiting! That a smuggler should dare to do such a
thing! He was consumed with impatience, and felt as if his dignity were
impeached. That a smuggler should keep him, the master, waiting!
Five minutes later a car, with faint lights, issued from the junction
road and stopped on the highway.
“Pesch!” exclaimed Mabuse.
A man turned from the open car.
“Yes, Doctor, here I am. It is Pesch.”
“It is 1.45 a.m., and you were due at 1.35.”
“Oh, a matter of ten minutes doesn’t count. _I’ve_ had to wait often
enough!” answered the voice in the darkness in a defiant tone.
“If I had a horsewhip here I’d cudgel you soundly. Ten minutes mean
fifteen kilometres advance upon a pursuer, you fool! You are earning
two thousand marks from me to-night.”
The other answered boldly, “And with my help _you_ are earning twenty
thousand!”
“Five hundred thousand more likely, you blockhead,” said Mabuse; “but
that’s nothing to do with you. The only question here is who is master
and who servant.”
“You are not my master,” said the other.
“I am not? ... you say so, do you?” he thundered. “Very well, you can
get along home. I don’t want you any more--never any more!”